A story about brendan's future

August 20, 2010 @ 10:08 PM

Inactive

stop THIS STORY IS TYPE DONE, SON SON. I HAVE NOW AVERTED MY FOCUS TO MORE IMPORTANT MATTERS IN LIFE.

part 1: brendan gon' fuck up, son45 year old Brendan nguyen lay sprawled across his gucci sofa, a line of coke on the table, and reruns of 'the oc' glaring from his 70 inch television set. "this is the swaglife", he thought to himself, as he bent over the table, placed his wide flat nose over the incospicious white powder, and inhaled the narcotic. He had come a long way. A mansion in the oc, a fleet of expensive cars, and most importantly of all, a white indie wife; he had everything that he had dreamt of so many years ago as a young man. As the familar high filled him with ecstacy, he exhaled a barely audible "yes." he just sat their for a while, staring with well worn intensity, at the opening credits of the show. He muttered the lyrics of 'the oc', each note ringing with familiarity, as he got up from the couch he had found himself on for most of the afternoon.

"I'm hungry as fuck, b," he thought to himself. As he made his way to the kitchen, he heard a small wimper. He averted his attention to a dog, resting warily at the door. Brendan tip toed towards the dog, and as he did, the dog tried to get up, but before the dog could even stand up, Brendan brought a merciless fist down on the emaciated animal. "GTFO, Ian Wang," he said to the dog as it collapsed once again. Brendan had named this dog after an old enemy. It was the latest in a long line of animals that Brendan had named after Ian Wang; all of Ian Wang's predecessors had died by brendan's cruel hand, a fate precipitated by brendan's hate of a real Ian Wang, whom he had known a long time ago.

But none of that mattered, now. Brendan was now a successful corporate lawyer. Unlike the Brendan of 2009, this Brendan didn't have to worry about whether gucci went on sale or not. That's because he didn't buy gucci. Affinity and force of habit drove brendan to take clothing from his fathers closet and wear it, whether it fit or not.

The days of fapping to Julia Roberts in 'pretty woman' were just distant memories. Brendan's financialsuccess had afforded him a wife, a hot indie white one at that. Brendan, however, knew that Michelle didn't love for his oc swag lifestyle, or his terrible haircuts. She loved his money. She loved the gucci sales and the Louis vuitton shopping sprees, not brendan. This thought lingered in brendan's mind, sometimes drifting to the forefront, but whenever this happened, Brendan would just have sex with Michelle, after all, Brendan was not a homosex.

In his swaglife indie kitchen, Brendan prepared some pot brownies, and a glass of 4loko. As he sat down on his chair to eat, he noticed something glistening on the kitchen's immaculate marble floor. He approached the object, and as he did, he noticed it was latex. He picked it up, bewildered. How could this be? He and Michelle hadn't had sex in the kitchen. But this could mean only one thing: Michelle was cheating on him. His 5"8 frame swung to the door, towards their bedroom, where Michelle lay soundly asleep after a night of listening to jay z's blueprint 19. He was going to demand an explanation.

He halted. But if he confronted her, then he probably wouldn't be getting dat poon tonight. He cursed himself under his breath as his peen0r once again won dominion over his actions, his logic taking the backseat.

He plopped himself down on the couch once again, racking his brain for a solution to this problem that wouldn't see him p00nless and wife-less. As his law school-honed mind analyzed the situation at hand, he mindlessly sniffed half a kilo of cocaine. Fueled by fervor and paranoia, both of which were augmented by the mind warping effects of cocaine, he thought of a plan to kill whoever was smashing his wife. As the scatterbrained fragments of his plan came together, a smile came over his face.

part 2: Brendan done fucked up

a heart-racing cocaine induced stupor, Brendan paced to the bed, where michelle still lay in slumber, blissfully unaware that her temptation's fruits had been revealed.

Brendan toned his nasally and lisped voice to a sharp whisper "wake up Kaleigh- shit." what was it about his first stickam relationship that allowed thoughts of her to permeate his interactions with Michelle? He had trill nigguh shit to attend to. But he couldn't think of that now. He dissmissed his longing and whispered once more, "wake up michelle", only this time in a louder tone.

Michelle's blue eyes opened to reveal a vapid, empty stare. "yes, Brendan", she asked. Brendan. Not honey. Not sweetie. Brendan."Michelle, I have to go to a super important meeting", he told her. It was a lie of course, to set his plan to action."what kind of meeting?" "it's a meeting of the boom/bap &#10006;&#10006;&#10006;&#10006;&#10006;s." part of brendan's ugly disgusting soul felt guilty about decieving his wife. But any feelings of wrongdoing were quickly dispatched by brendan's cocaine-driven paranoia."okay Brendan", she said, unquestioningly.Brendan kissed his wife. But it was meaningless. It had none of the passion or pure love of brendan's webcam seshes with Kaleigh. He strided out the door.

He took a deep breath, his weed-ravaged lungs circulating the heavy suburban air. He went over his plan, rehearsing every step, every possibility, in that Yale-pedigreed mind of his.

His plan was founded on the assumption that whomever Michelle was cheating on him with, would show up, under the assumption that Brendan would be 1000000 miles away in NYC, meeting with the boom/bap &#10006;&#10006;&#10006;&#10006;&#10006;s. He would wait from a safe distance, and wait for the bastard to arrive. Once he did, Brendan would grab the glock and get in the house, he'd rush into the bedroom in a fit of rage, shooting the bastard, who was drilling his white indie wife, right in the head as he was cumming.

He grabbed his glock, and drove down the curb, set up there, and began to wait.

While he waited, he found his mind to be restless. A product of the cocaine, no doubt. As his mind raced, trying to find something with which to occupy time, his mind came back to his teenage years. He smiled an ugly smile as he fell back on his memories. Indie music, Viet nikka shit, surfing, school, Kurt, hypebeast, and above all else, the pursuit of hot indie white girls. He struggled with how weak he was. How pathetic. But he was a changed man. Yale had done that. But he still yearned for yesteryear, whose moments he still held a part of, somwhere in his heart.

Especially, however, brendan's thoughts drifted back to Kaleigh. She was the first indie white girl he had a chance with, and despite being a whore, he still held a special place in his heart, for those webcam seshes and long swagful emails. He smiled, as his mind turned to a moment of happiness for him.

Brendan was waundering blissfully through years past, when he saw the familar sight of michelle's bentley (no ronnel) roll past him. His mind went blank. "no, no, no, no." this isn't supposed to happen. His plan was alreay beginning to fall apart at the seams. He started his engine, and sped after Michelle. His heartbeat was through the roof, pounding like a jackhammer, and threatening to escape his non-brolic chest.

He followed michelle's car, as it twisted and turned through suburban orange county. To brendan's surprise, he was all too familar with the directions she was taking. As he trailed her, an unsettling air of familiarity swept over him. He knew exactly where she was headed. He himself had taken this path many times. His white indie wife Michelle, was headed towards the house of one Dr. Daniel lamotte, md.

I'm still bored. Watching friends reruns and listening to beach house ain't cuttin' it

a heart-racing cocaine induced stupor, Brendan paced to the bed, where michelle still lay in slumber, blissfully unaware that her temptation's fruits had been revealed.

Brendan toned his nasally and lisped voice to a sharp whisper "wake up Kaleigh- shit." what was it about his first stickam relationship that allowed thoughts of her to permeate his interactions with Michelle? He had trill nigguh shit to attend to. But he couldn't think of that now. He dissmissed his longing and whispered once more, "wake up michelle", only this time in a louder tone.

Michelle's blue eyes opened to reveal a vapid, empty stare. "yes, Brendan", she asked. Brendan. Not honey. Not sweetie. Brendan.
"Michelle, I have to go to a super important meeting", he told her. It was a lie of course, to set his plan to action.
"what kind of meeting?"
"it's a meeting of the boom/bap &#10006;&#10006;&#10006;&#10006;&#10006;s." part of brendan's ugly disgusting soul felt guilty about decieving his wife. But any feelings of wrongdoing were quickly dispatched by brendan's cocaine-driven paranoia.
"okay Brendan", she said, unquestioningly.
Brendan kissed his wife. But it was meaningless. It had none of the passion or pure love of brendan's webcam seshes with Kaleigh. He strided out the door.

He took a deep breath, his weed-ravaged lungs circulating the heavy suburban air. He went over his plan, rehearsing every step, every possibility, in that Yale-pedigreed mind of his.

His plan was founded on the assumption that whomever Michelle was cheating on him with, would show up, under the assumption that Brendan would be 1000000 miles away in NYC, meeting with the boom/bap &#10006;&#10006;&#10006;&#10006;&#10006;s. He would wait from a safe distance, and wait for the bastard to arrive. Once he did, Brendan would grab the glock and get in the house, he'd rush into the bedroom in a fit of rage, shooting the bastard, who was drilling his white indie wife, right in the head as he was cumming.

He grabbed his glock, and drove down the curb, set up there, and began to wait.

While he waited, he found his mind to be restless. A product of the cocaine, no doubt. As his mind raced, trying to find something with which to occupy time, his mind came back to his teenage years. He smiled an ugly smile as he fell back on his memories. Indie music, Viet nikka shit, surfing, school, Kurt, hypebeast, and above all else, the pursuit of hot indie white girls. He struggled with how weak he was. How pathetic. But he was a changed man. Yale had done that. But he still yearned for yesteryear, whose moments he still held a part of, somwhere in his heart.

Especially, however, brendan's thoughts drifted back to Kaleigh. She was the first indie white girl he had a chance with, and despite being a whore, he still held a special place in his heart, for those webcam seshes and long swagful emails. He smiled, as his mind turned to a moment of happiness for him.

Brendan was waundering blissfully through years past, when he saw the familar sight of michelle's bentley (no ronnel) roll past him. His mind went blank. "no, no, no, no." this isn't supposed to happen. His plan was alreay beginning to fall apart at the seams. He started his engine, and sped after Michelle. His heartbeat was through the roof, pounding like a jackhammer, and threatening to escape his non-brolic chest.

He followed michelle's car, as it twisted and turned through suburban orange county. To brendan's surprise, he was all too familar with the directions she was taking. As he trailed her, an unsettling air of familiarity swept over him. He knew exactly where she was headed. He himself had taken this path many times. His white indie wife Michelle, was headed towards the house of one Dr. Daniel lamotte, md.